


Cartoons and Cereal

by shannywan



Series: Cartoons and Cereal [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Kid Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 08:06:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1420828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shannywan/pseuds/shannywan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally posted on tumblr for dr-watsons-lover and tragicvisi0ns, in response to posted headcannons. In summary, the headcannons were basically "Sherlock used to self-harm, and now John comforts him through fear" and "Sherlock comforts John when the latter has nightmares by playing the violin, or even sleeping with him (sleeping as in actual sleep, not sex)". </p>
<p>So enjoy, comment, and wait for more; because this is a multi-parter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cartoons and Cereal

**8 Years Ago**

**Sherlock’s Age: 17**

The house was empty, as usual. Will walked in, slamming the door behind him. And hated himself for it.

“William?” a voice called from the living room. Will froze. The house wasn’t empty, after all.

It was his older brother, Mycroft. Usually he was off at university, off slaying political dragons at the tender age of Too Young. But today…he must be visiting. Visiting, with all the joy that would bring. Will remembered their deduction contests on good days, and Will’s bitter jealousy of Mycroft on their worst. And jealousy was rare for him. His family was wealthy, and Will was himself intelligent and attractive in a certain light; so no student had ever been his rival.

Mycroft was different. Mycroft had the one prize Will craved above all others: intelligence. He was older, more mature, and somehow always knew the next step before Will was even thinking of it. He was always right, ringing off facts like premonitions.

Slowly, with caution—and with Mycroft, you always had to be cautious—Will stepped into the living room. He felt bubbling and roiling with a nervous, twitchy energy. He just wanted to go upstairs, up to his room, ignore Mycroft’s existence…

He couldn’t now. Mycroft could sense hesitation and fear the way a shark senses blood. If Will were nervous at all—and right now, he was extremely anxious—Mycroft would know. He’d dig the information out of him.

“What happened at school? You’re upset,” Mycroft said. For most, the usual communication pretenses were in order—“How are you?” “Did you have a good day?”—but with them, those platitudes were unnecessary.

Will shrugged. Time to play the game. “Failed a test.”

“Lying. Or, what, did you get one point away from a perfect score?” Mycroft’s tone was, as ever, filled with sarcasm with a side dish of reproach. Typically he covered this arrogance up to please others and appear normal, but since Will saw through this tactic, the ruse was unnecessary. Together, the two brothers showed their true selves: Mycroft, the arrogant genius; and Will, the impatient, scientific, socially-impaired detective. These facets were shown to no-one else save one another.

“Pretty much.”

Mycroft gave him a long look, as if he were seeing through his bones.

“Hm. Seems to me like someone got their head shoved against a wall again.”

That had happened. It was probably a reason why he was so angry. Bullies were idiots that he could control easily…most of the time. When he could not—say, after vacations or when the collective idiots got a new leader—his pride and often times his body, were hurt.

Today had been One of Those Days. And a particularly vicious one, too…

A stab of pain ran through him, and will internally shook his head. No. Stop. Don’t think of that. Just get past Mycroft, go upstairs…

There was no doubt Mycroft would not have picked up his fear. Mycroft, however, would never guess where that fear came from. Why would he? He’d never experienced such things, had never even—

STOP.

“Will?” His brother’s voice hinted at concern. “Is everything alright?” He wasn’t feigning the question. Genuine concern.

For some reason, this hit Will, hard. For one insane second, he considered doing the one thing he abhorred above all others: sharing his feelings.

But then he vomited a little in his mouth, and the idea vanished as he swallowed.

“I’m fine. But, yes, they did hit me. It fucking hurts.”

Mycroft grinned, all signs of being a caring individual gone. “Well, it probably serves you right.”

That was his cue. Mycroft stood up, reaching for his jacket, while Will moved past him, trying his best to appear nonchalant and confident.

“Did you insult one of their girl-and-or-boyfriends? Reveal their drug habits? Out one of them?” A deeper grin alighted on his face. Will was his greatest comedy routine. “Or did you just open your mouth?”

Mean. Mean, cruel, biting. Why did he think Mycroft actually had human feelings of compassion?

“Well, it was nice chatting, brother mine.” His coat was on, and he was stepping out the door. Will was halfway to the stairs. “I’m going out. Groceries. Dinner. Bye!”

The door closed, and Will was in his room, his own door safely shut. Though he knew for certain he was alone now, he locked the door.

Safe. Safe. Safe now. Safe.

His mind tried to resassure him, yet Will felt no calm. Throat clenching tight, he leaned against the door, trying desperately to be calm. To contain his emotions. They ran rampant, charging through music and ideas like a stampede until Will couldn’t stand himself anymore. Screaming a high-pitched wail, he began tearing off his clothes. In under 30 seconds he was naked, and he grabbed a towel, angrily heading to the shower.

Shower. But first, a detour. The kitchen. Will reached into the knife drawer, grabbed a small one, back upstairs now.

The knife felt good, strong and heavy in his hand, as he turned on the shower. The bathroom door was locked, there was no-one else inside the house, and he had sweet relief in hand.

Temperature just right—scalding—he stepped in, knife still in hand.

 

One hour later, and he was still alone, his body red and tingling from his shower. Red, tingling, and covered in slash lines from the knife.

At the time, he’d needed to release something—emotion, anger, humiliation. It was all good. And it wasn’t his English professor’s fucking dick.

Will sniffed, out of sadness and pity. What was happening to him? He was becoming soft, emotional. A veritable poet, full of angst. He hated it. He hated himself. He hated Mr. Sumners—sorry, Dr. Sumners—and he hated his classmates. He loathed the blue sky, and the rain, and the sun. The day was miserable in his interactions with the world, and the night was intolerable because it led to day.

In the shower, it had felt so good. He’d sliced his skin open, metaphors opening up as well: the blood was his conflicted emotions, the secrets he didn’t want to keep, the rage, the shame. All coming forth in lifeblood, his very essence.

But now he had more of a calm head. Now, shame roared through him—and not just shame of someone else’s actions, but his own. Will wasn’t sure how much hate he could have inside of him, but it was growing by the day. He hadn’t lied to Mycroft—some idiots had hit him, shoved his face against a wall—but he hadn’t told him everything. Like the fact that his English professor had been teaching him something other than how to write an essay. If his new cuts were painful, the space between his legs hurt even more. And even that was inconsequential compared to the boiling rage that scalded his heart.

**Now**

Sherlock Holmes glanced at his roommate, John Watson, and felt his heart surge in pity. They were in John’s room—although John wasn’t aware Sherlock was there as well. For all he knew, John thought he was in Afghanistan. Still fighting. Still at war. Still watching people, his friends, die horrifically around him from useless conflict.  
It felt strange, to have his heart react this way. Usually the closest thing to pity he achieved was towards criminals. The intelligent ones, he’d never get to catch again. Their brainpower would be used for something so ridiculous as crime. That was a pity.

But to feel this compassion, not out of selfish need or want, but from genuine concern? That was new.

Sherlock held his violin in one hand, string in the other. He bit his lip and, in one swift motion, settled the instrument against his shoulder. In another move, he began to play Bach. As he played, his mind settled into an artistic blank slate of peace; and slowly the official piece began to become an improvisation.

While he played, he was able to think, his fingers and arm doing the active work of composing. He thought of his new life—free of hate, of cocaine. Of love.

Love. Hm. He had only just realized that he was in love. Love, that pitiable emotion that he had never felt. That he never thought could prey on him.

And love was, truly, a predator.

The Woman’s nickname for him was inaccurate. If his English professor was love, Sherlock didn’t want any of it. He’d had his share of love, and it appalled him.

Ever since he was seventeen, the daily nuances of people—previously annoying, but tolerable—became disgusting. Sherlock had wanted to become an astronaut, but towards the end of school he changed his career plan to hermit. Eventually, he had gone to uni, but he had stayed away from people, from parties. Well, until that One Time, which proved that his life philosophy was entirely correct: he, and others, were steaming piles of human waste and abhorrence.

His high life, his sober life, they were both the same in that neither were enjoyable. Sherlock was lonely when alone, and miserable when with others. At the time, before John,he hadn’t realized this. He thought that was his fate in life. To live, to solve crimes, to use himself as a machine; because being human was too much work. Too messy.

That was before John Watson entered his life. Sherlock had had roommates before, but they had all left as quickly as they entered. John was a strange case. Neither heads nor bombs could drive him away. He was a follower, but not a stupid one. He was a doctor and a soldier, a killer and a healer. He was emotional yet steadfast. In short: a conundrum, and one that Sherlock couldn’t piece together.

Oh, he could, if he really tried. He could sit down next to John Watson and analyze his every move, every action. And if he did this, John would no longer be a mystery, an unsolveable puzzle.

But for the first time in his life, Sherlock didn’t want to solve another human being. For the first time, it was okay to have something unsolved, something confusing. If that thing were John because, for some reason, John was the only unpredictable element Sherlock liked in his life.

And that was all John was: an element, a tool to prevent boredom that wasn’t cocaine or dead bodies. A wonderful solution…or so Sherlock thought initially. As time passed, John grew on Sherlock as moss develops on a rotting tree. At first ignorable, John’s nuances and patterns became daily, and essential, to Sherlock’s life. The little habits and quirks of behavior remained boring, but…likeable.

Time passed, and when he saw the bomb strapped to John’s chest, Sherlock’s own rose with a feeling he had never before experienced in his life: true fear and desperation for another human.

Now, a month after that event, Sherlock had come to the conclusion that John made his life better. No, not better, his life before was nothing. A blank slate, not even a slate. A machine, his life was, and Sherlock was the only element. Now he had John—more exactly, John had him.

John had Sherlock more than any case, person, rapist, brother, drug, or music had him. And the man wasn’t even aware of it.

He didn’t even know.


End file.
